


Fairer Than Ivory or Pearls

by Zdenka



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Consent Issues, F/F, Nature that loves you and wants to eat you, Power Imbalance, the Sea is dark and full of terrors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-07-25 00:39:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16186481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zdenka/pseuds/Zdenka
Summary: Míriel has a mysterious encounter after a Festival of Uinen at Rómenna. Much later, facing death for herself and her people, she makes a bargain with the Lady of the Seas.





	Fairer Than Ivory or Pearls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Solanaceae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solanaceae/gifts).



It was rare for Míriel’s family to be able to visit Rómenna together. Ar-Gimilzôr the King, who preferred his Adûnaic name and disdained the Elven-tongues, viewed all the Elf-friends with suspicion; long before Míriel was born, he made them all move from the western shores of Númenor to live together near the eastern haven of Rómenna. The King ever feared conspiracies from those he treated so harshly; thus, when Míriel’s father the King’s Heir made a visit to the Lord and Lady of Andunië, his wife and daughter must remain under the King’s eye in Armenelos. This once, however, due to the tireless intervention of Queen Inzilbêth, they were permitted to go together to the yearly Festival of Uinen—though the Lord of Andunië diplomatically called it the Festival of the Sea.

Míriel had not been to the festival since she was a child. In former times, Uinen’s feast had been celebrated all throughout Númenor, but now only the Faithful in Rómenna dared to observe it. What she remembered best was the dances in honor of Lady Uinen, performed by the older children. She had gone to bed after the festival and dreamed of them dancing underwater, the boys and girls turned into dolphins and colorful fish.

She was looking forward to those dances as they arrived at the seaside house of the Lord of Andunië in Rómenna, though she told herself that they surely could not match the enchantment of her childhood memories. Míriel and her parents were greeted at the door by their cousin, the Lord of Andunië’s son Amandil. He bowed and gave them courteous greeting, wishing Uinen’s blessings upon them. “Please come with me, and I will show you where to sit. My father and mother are dealing with matters of the festival. They will join you shortly.”

He led Míriel and her parents around to the back of the house. There colorful awnings had been erected, with benches and tables; many of the Faithful of Rómenna were gathered there in their festival robes, crowned with wreaths of flowers or evergreen oiolairë. They took their places, and Amandil kept them company while attendants brought them cider and chilled wine, slices of fish that had been taken from the water moments before being cooked, and warm bread that smelled deliciously of herbs. Míriel and her mother were given wreaths of fresh flowers, while her father set sweet-smelling oiolairë upon his head.

Before long, the Lord and Lady of Andunië were able to join them. They were older than when Míriel last saw them; their movements were slower now and their hair touched with silver. They greeted their cousins with warm affection, though their conversation was often interrupted as the Lord or Lady was pulled aside to deal with some question concerning the festival. Míriel watched as they presided over the festivities together, handling the inevitable minor crises and last-minute problems with calm grace and good humor. They reminded Míriel of two soldiers who had trained together for a long time or two sailors who had shared a long voyage, in the way they seemed to communicate with only a glance or a nod, trading duties effortlessly back and forth or supporting each other without a word being exchanged.

The Lord and Lady took their place again when it was time for the dances to Lady Uinen. In former times, Míriel knew, it was only the sons of the Uinendili who were allowed to perform these dances. But now the dancers were drawn from among all the sons and daughters of Rómenna’s sea-captains and sailors, shipwrights and weavers of sailcloth—anyone whose trade was the making or sailing of ships. The only concession to the older custom was that the boys and girls danced separately.

The group of boys danced first. To the music of flute and drums, they ran in and took their places along the stretch of sand which had been left bare for a stage. Some of the younger boys swayed and leapt back and forth, their motions like the rocking of the waves. Another line of boys moved through them, gliding and darting through the water like schools of fish. They separated and reformed, moving together as one.

The Lady Uinen appeared in their midst, moving forward with a gliding motion, and they parted to let her through. The older boy who danced Uinen was the only one who went masked; all the others’ faces were bare. Strands of green and purple silk hung down from the back of the mask to mingle with the dancer’s unbound hair. Uinen gestured to command them, and the others obeyed; the fish circled around her, and other dancers jumped from the waves with the acrobatic leaps of dolphins. The music grew faster; the dancers’ motions grew wilder and more agitated, portraying a stormy sea. Uinen raised her arms and tossed back her head, rejoicing in the fury of the waves. Then suddenly she made a commanding gesture; all at once, the waves ceased their tumult. The dancers stilled; they resumed their motion, swaying gently back and forth. The fish and the dolphins came forth again, swimming and leaping around their lady, and Uinen stood accepting their homage. At last the waves rose up, and Uinen vanished from sight; the dancers divided into two groups and ran off to either side of the stage.

There was a brief pause, and the music began again. This time it was a line of girls who took their places across the stage, their bodies rising and falling like the sea. Two of the girls entered near the front, dressed as a sailor and a sailor’s wife. They clasped hands and moved in slow circles around each other, their gestures showing their love and reluctance to be parted. It could be seen that the sailor was promising to return faithfully to his wife when his voyage was ended. The dancers portrayed both the ship and the sea; the sailor, perched in the mast, swayed with their rocking.

Then Uinen entered swiftly; again, she was the only one of the dancers to wear a mask. She gestured for the sea to rise in storm. The sailor fell to his knees, while the waves rose high around him; he struggled to remain afloat, tossed back and forth by the waves. Others of the dancers moved towards him, dancing with the menacing, sinuous motion of sharks.

Suddenly, the sailor’s wife ran into their midst. In her hands, she clasped a bough of green oiolairë. The waves drew back, ceasing their buffeting of the sailor. In gesture, she pleaded with Uinen to spare her beloved. Uinen stood motionless for a moment, while all the others waited with their eyes and bodies turned toward her. Then she gave a solemn nod. The sailor’s wife went quickly to her husband and raised him to his feet; with her help, he made his way offstage. Uinen lifted her hand again; the waves swirled around her, and then once more the dancers divided and ran off to each side.

Míriel released her breath in a sigh. It had not felt as if she were only watching a performance, but like something real. Uinen especially—whether played by the boy or the girl, the Lady of the Seas had moved with true power and majesty.

When both sets of dancers had taken their bows, Míriel rose and wandered at will through the festival. There were tables piled with food and drink; now too there was merrier music, and everyone danced as they wished, in couples or in groups. Míriel enjoyed the chance to wander freely and speak with whoever she chanced across, whether lord or fisherman, unconstrained by court etiquette or fear of the King’s spies. It had been a long time since she heard the Elven-tongues spoken by so many.

At one point, her father called her over. His expression was troubled. “Is something wrong?” Míriel asked at once. “Has there been some news from Armenelos?”

“No,” he reassured her quickly. “Only come here for a moment.” He broke off a sprig of oiolairë from his own wreath. “Let me put this in your hair. You should wear oiolairë also, to honor Lady Uinen.” Smiling, Míriel stood still while her father carefully braided the green twig into her hair. If that was his whim, she saw no harm in it.

As it drew near to the time when the festival would end, Míriel found a place a little apart from the crowd and stood watching the people moving back and forth. Her eye was caught by two of the older children moving past her. She knew them at once; it was the girl and the boy who had played Uinen in the dances. Míriel could not have said how she recognized them, since their faces had been masked. Perhaps it was a strangeness in the way they moved, a distant and intent look in their eyes. Together, they went down to the sea, knelt down, and washed their hands in the waves.

“It is the last ceremony, for those who take the part of the goddess,” the Lady of Andunië said quietly from behind her. Míriel turned around and inclined her head respectfully. The Lady continued, “Before the dance, they go to the sea, crowned with oiolairë, and pray that Lady Uinen will set a small part of her power upon them, so they may dance her part worthily. Afterwards, they pray that she will release them.”

Míriel shivered, though she could not say why. “And does she?”

Míriel could not read the Lady's expression. “It has been a long time since a son or daughter of Númenor perished by drowning.” The Lady looked out to sea, watching the movement of the waves with an abstracted expression. The sky was growing darker now as it drew towards evening, and the sea no longer sparkled in the sun’s rays. “It is almost time for the evening sacrifice, to end the festival. Your father will do it, since he is here. When he is not, the Lord of Andunië carries it out. He too is of the line of Elros, though not of the King's House. The King disdains all the old ceremonies now—not only the prayers on Meneltarma and the observances for the Valar, but the ceremonies for Lady Uinen. And yet, he has never forbidden the ships that sail from Númenor to set the Bough of Return on their prow, and he has not put a stop to our festival today. He allows our superstition, he would say. In Rómenna, we still remember: what must be done, and why. And what would happen if the sacrifices were neglected. We will not let that happen.”

“My father is often weary these days,” Míriel said after a slight hesitation. “Perhaps I could perform the evening sacrifice today. I wish to take more of his burdens from him.”

The Lady considered Míriel for a moment, then shook her head briskly. “You are no longer a child, and in time many of your father’s duties will fall to you. But not this one, I think; not yet. There will be time enough. And perhaps it is better not to draw the Lady Uinen’s attention to you just yet.”

Míriel wanted to ask what she meant, but just then the Lord of Andunië called for silence. There was a stir among the crowd. Míriel followed the direction of their gaze to see her father making his way down to the water, with the Lord of Andunië beside him. The sun was setting behind them over the hills of Númenor, streaking the sky with pink and gold. But before them, over the ocean, the sky was now almost completely dark. Amandil and others held lit torches; their flames reflected in the water like a second sunset.

Her father held a green bough of oiolairë in his hands; a narrow strip of cloth which had been dyed green and blue was wrapped around it. Solemnly, he knelt down and spoke the final prayer of the festival, thanking Uinen for her protection and favor to Númenor, and asking her to grant them the same protection in future. Then he released the bough into the water. A wave rose up and took it, carrying it out to sea. At the same moment, the torches were extinguished in the water.

Míriel blinked in the sudden darkness. Behind her, at the house, people were lighting the lanterns. The Lady of Andunië laid a hand on her arm. “Come, let us go in.”

There was a smaller gathering in a private room: Míriel, her father and mother, the Lord and Lady of Andunië with their son Amandil and a few others of their trusted people. There they discussed the situation in Armenelos and what could be done for Númenor. Míriel knew that her father often exchanged coded letters with the Lord and Lady of Andunië, but this was a rare chance to speak in person and take counsel together. They spoke of how the Faithful could be protected and how best to oppose the King’s party at Court; who supported the King’s Heir and who leaned toward the King’s younger son Gimilkhâd. It was late when they separated. Míriel changed into her night-robe and fell into bed without taking the time to unbraid her hair.

Míriel awoke a few hours later. She could not say for certain what had woken her; perhaps it was the moon, near its full, which shone so brightly through her window. She pushed back the covers and climbed out of bed, leaning over the windowsill. The fitful breeze bore the scent of salt. It would be cooler down by the ocean, surely. On impulse, she tied a blue outer robe over her sleeping-gown and hurried barefoot through the house. The back door opened to the path that led to the beach. She silently closed the door behind her and sought the sound of the waves.

Míriel stood a moment on the shore, tilting her head back. It was indeed cooler there; the breeze caressed her face and the sand was silky underneath her toes. She breathed deeply of the salt air. The stars were very bright above her. She wandered down the beach, closer to the ocean. The waves splashed over her feet as they came in, and drew back again in moonlit foam.

She was not alone. There was something in the water, a vast shape both glimmering and dark. Then the waters brightened, as if someone had lit a lamp, and Míriel could see her clearly. The shape resolved into a woman’s body; she rose out of the water to her waist. She was naked and very beautiful. Her dark hair flowed down her back, a wonder and a glory; it was not black, but gleamed with highlights of purple and blue and green. Small iridescent scales on her face and skin gave back glints of light. Her eyes shone with a light mysterious and ancient. Two sharks circled lazily around her; Uinen stroked their backs as they passed her, as one might stroke a cat.

Míriel stood motionless. She was too overwhelmed by wonder to move or stir. Dimly in the back of her mind, she thought that she should have been afraid.

“Come here to me,” Uinen said.

Míriel obeyed, moving slowly through the water until she was waist-deep. Her robes floated out around her. Uinen tilted her head and looked at Míriel. “Make yourself known to my sharks,” she said. “If you touch them, they will know you.”

Míriel swallowed. “They won’t bite me?”

“They will not harm you.”

One of the sharks was swimming past her, in its circle around Uinen. Slowly, Míriel reached out to stroke its back. She was surprised; though its skin looked smooth and sleek, it was rough under her hand. She carefully petted first one shark and then the other. One of them pushed its blunt nose against her hand to be petted; she felt the other one brush against her thigh under the water as it passed. Then they dived again, with a flip of their powerful tail.

“Your people performed the prayer and sacrifice today. They have not forgotten.” Uinen reached out to touch her, slowly tracing a finger across Míriel’s mouth. Míriel’s lips parted under the touch. Uinen’s finger moved back and forth across her lips; her skin tasted of salt and stranger, unidentifiable things. Míriel found she was leaning forward; her knees felt weak. Her hair fell forward across her face; her braid slid forward, the ends of it falling into the water with a quiet splash. Uinen drew back abruptly.

Míriel tried to calm her quick breath. It was a moment before the delightful haziness passed enough for her to focus and she could see what had stopped Uinen: the sprig of oiolairë still tied into her braid.

Uinen was smiling. Her teeth were sharp and gleamed in the moonlight. “Do you know who first set the bough of oiolairë on a ship’s prow?” Míriel shook her head.

“It was Elros, the first King of Númenor.” Uinen stretched lazily. Míriel wanted to stroke her sleek skin, explore the strange pattern of scales with her fingertips. “He came to me alone, in a small boat, and told me that I would not take any more of his people.” Uinen seemed amused by the recollection. Míriel’s braids were drifting in the water; was it Uinen’s hand that played with the end of it, or only the motion of the waves? “He held a bough of oiolairë in his hand, to call upon the power of the earth, and he looked at me with his eyes like Melian’s and tried to bind me. He, not even of age as Elves count the years, wanted to set the power of his Voice upon me! I laughed, and I told him that he was in my hand and I could destroy him if I wished.”

“But you did not,” Míriel said softly.

Uinen moved closer to her still; the motion stirred the waves around her, which lapped gently at Míriel’s waist. “No,” she murmured, her lips close to Míriel’s ear. “Instead, I made a bargain with him. There is power in the covenant that a King makes with the Powers. I told him, that as long as he and his descendants remembered to honor me, I would let them sail their ships upon the Sea, and I would not take any ship that bore a bough of oiolairë upon its prow.”

Uinen gave another slow smile, revealing the sharp points of her gleaming teeth. “He was young,” she said, “and I am ancient, older than the World. I am willing to wait. I abide by our bargain. I do not claim anyone, who has not first named herself mine.” Uinen’s hair moved like a living thing, twining gently around Míriel’s waist; her fingers gently tugged and stroked at Míriel’s own hair. “Lovely daughter of Elros,” she said low in Míriel’s ear, “come away with me.”

Míriel caught her breath sharply. In that moment, she wanted to say yes. She longed to taste more of that strange sweetness, to feel Uinen’s mouth against hers and rest in her embrace. What would happen if she pulled the sprig of oiolairë from her hair and let it fall, if she loosed all her braids until her hair flowed free as Uinen’s and followed her out into the unknowable deeps with the sharks and the darting fish? She shivered, half in desire, half in fear. All the world fell silent, waiting for her answer; there was only the sound of the waves against the shore.

“I cannot,” she said finally. She was her father's only heir. Only Palantir the wise stood between his people and far worse things than the sharks.

Uinen caressed her face once more, gazing at Míriel with her ancient eyes. Then she drew away and swam out into the deep. Her sharks followed behind her, swimming with strong beats of their powerful tails.

Míriel watched until she was gone, until the light faded from the waves and she could no longer feel even the dimmest sense of Uinen’s power. She stood there longer still, waist-deep in the water, until she began to shiver with cold. Finally, she turned and went back to the shore. Barefoot and with the hem of her robe dripping water, she made her way back to her room.

In the morning, Míriel was silent and withdrawn. What had happened between her and Uinen seemed like something sacred, something secret that should not be spoken of. And no words of hers could rightly capture that wild beauty and danger.

Her father looked at her for a long moment, then relaxed a little with relief. He laid his hand gently on her head. Did he, could he know? Or had he ever faced such a choice, in some enchanted night under the moon? Míriel found herself on the point of asking, but something stayed her tongue. He turned away to greet her mother, and the moment was lost. Soon they would go back to Armenelos, and her strange encounter would seem like a dream.

* * *

Ever since the Armada left, Míriel’s dreams had been restless. She could not remember them clearly when she awoke; only fragments, vague recollections of shadows rising over Númenor, of tree branches lashing in a strong wind. They left her with a strong sense of unease, but with no clear sign of what to do. She could not call back Pharazôn’s fleet. She could not change his blasphemous purpose, or stop Sauron from doing what he wished.

More than a month now since the fleet departed, and her dreams last night had brought her suddenly awake, filled with cold fear. But she still did not know exactly what it was that she feared. She lay in bed awake for a long time, while the light slowly brightened outside her window, until one of her handmaidens came to wake her.

She let her ladies dress her, arrange her hair and set the royal gem on her brow, while she gave only distracted answers when they spoke to her. What had she dreamed of? A shadow, a shadow that rose and blotted out the sun. The waves beating against the shore, a cold fall of spray . . . She closed her eyes, while her handmaidens’ deft fingers arranged her coils of hair with golden pins. The image grew in her mind: she had dreamed of a great wave. The sense of fear, of impending doom that she had felt in the dream came back to her now.

There was a tremor in the earth; the jars of cosmetics rattled on the table. A golden arm-ring rolled to the edge of the table and fell, striking the floor with a metallic clatter. Her ladies gasped, clung to each other or the nearest piece of furniture. Then it was over; they laughed in relief, and the quiet chatter sprang up again. Míriel rose slowly to her feet. “My lady?” one of them asked uncertainly.

Míriel had a sudden certainty that she must act now, or it would be too late. A great doom hung suspended over Númenor. She gripped her skirts in both hands and ran for the stables.

She rode wildly toward the Meneltarma. She remembered her father’s faith, her father’s hands uplifted in prayer. The Valar were just and compassionate. Surely they would not destroy the innocent with the guilty. She would go before them and plead in prayer, as Númenor’s Queen, and pray that they would avert Númenor’s doom.

The earth shook again, more violently, as she was nearly at the foot of the holy mountain. Her horse threw her off and fled in wild fright. Míriel stood up, staggering a little. She thought she was unhurt, except for bruises, but it didn’t matter now. She ran. And when she reached the base of the mountain, she ran, climbed and scrambled up the rocky path that led towards the summit. She was dimly aware that her robe was torn, that her hands were scratched and bleeding. The sea was roaring, louder and louder, and the wind was rising; she could no longer hear her own footsteps or her own panting breath.

She was nearly at the summit when a cold shadow passed across the sun. She turned. A great wave, like the wave in her dream, was rising, rolling forward. She could not move; she only stood immobile, awaiting the stroke of doom. But the wave did not take her. She was above it still, on the rocky height that was becoming an island. The wave broke around the peak of Meneltarma and continued onward to either side, rolling inexorably forward. “No,” Míriel screamed, but her voice was drowned in the rushing of the wind. The sea was still rising. There was a rush of water upward, and Uinen rose out of the waves.

She was beautiful and terrible. Her eyes shone with a strange light. The water slid away from her pale shoulders. Bright branches of some sea-growth twined around her head, waving gently. She smiled; Míriel could see her teeth, sharp and pointed. The sinuous shapes of eels glided through the water around her. Their eyes were blue, strangely beautiful.

“What is happening?” Míriel demanded. She could not hear her own voice, but it seemed Uinen heard her.

“The Valar have forsaken Númenor,” Uinen said, in a voice that came out of the waves and the wind. “And Ilúvatar has doomed it.”

“No,” Míriel said again. “Lady Uinen, for the sake of those who have been faithful to you, please save Númenor!”

Uinen tilted her head to one side. “I cannot save Númenor,” she said. “It is earth and rock, and my power is of the Sea. But I can save your people.” The waves were rising higher, lashing against the rock. Míriel could not bear to look behind her and see how much of the land had already been swallowed up.

Uinen looked at Míriel, with something expectant and hungry in her gaze. “You are the true Queen of Númenor. Make a bargain with me.”

Míriel stood alone on the high rock. Her garments were drenched with water and clinging to her. Her hands were empty. She had no bough of oiolairë, no sacrifice. What could she give? What could Uinen ask of her? And then she understood.

The highest waves were already splashing over her feet. Míriel reached up to the back of her head, to the fillet which held the Queen’s gem in place. She unfastened it and let it fall. Her hair was already damp, clinging about her face in wet tendrils. She freed the rest of it to tumble down over her back and shoulders, letting the pins fall onto the rocky path or tumble into the ocean. She stretched out her hands to Uinen. “I am the bough of oiolairë. I am yours.”

A moment passed; Míriel could hear the waves splashing near her feet and her heart beating in her ears. Uinen surged forward. Her lips met Míriel’s, and then the wave was upon her, around her, surging around her limbs and down her throat. She was lifted and spun around, turned head over heels, helpless in the grip of the ocean’s great and terrible power. At last she was released, gasping for breath.

She was under the water’s surface, Míriel realized dizzily; the waves thrashed above her. But she was still breathing. Something stirred at the sides of her neck; she put her hand there, and half-disbelieving, she felt the flutter of gills under her fingers. And when she turned her head, her arm—all her skin that she could see—was lined with iridescent scales.

“I have made you mine,” Uinen said.

“I understand,” Míriel said softly. If she tried to return to land again, would she drown in the air like a fish? Even if that were so, it was not too great a sacrifice. She had been drowning invisibly for decades, sinking into despair like the depths of a lightless sea. Now she was re-formed, transmuted. Her heart felt lighter than it had in years. “And my people?”

Uinen pointed, and the water around them seemed to become transparent, lit from within by a strange light. The water around them shone blue and green, like being inside of a gem. And suddenly Míriel could see far down into the depths, to the deepest abysses of the ocean, and for miles around her on all sides. Uinen’s hair, dark as Míriel’s own but shining with shifting highlights of blue and green and purple and grey and every color of the ocean, stretched down into those depths and far away from her through all the seas. Míriel could see too where the ocean was rising, rising over the land; the heavy weight of cold waters moved over the fields and orchards, the houses, even the palace of the King.

Where the salt water moved, Uinen’s hair moved also, stretching impossibly far. It wound and tangled around each of the struggling, drowning bodies. And then it released them, and where a man or woman had been, a brightly colored fish darted away through the water, or a seal or porpoise or shark glided through the waves, or an octopus curiously moved its new limbs. Númenor herself was drowning, sinking; but her people were reborn.

“They are saved, as you asked,” Uinen said. “They are free. From Sauron and the Valar alike.”

“Thank you,” Míriel said with deep gratitude. And perhaps it was not a bad thing, to be out of the Valar’s sight. Míriel had prayed over the years, fervently, numbly, in faith and in anger and in growing despair. Had Míriel’s devotion to the Valar spared her, or her people, one bit of suffering? In the end the Valar had doomed Númenor, not saved her.

Uinen drew back her hand, and the crystalline light faded away. There was only her and Míriel, rocking with the motion of the waves. “They are free,” Uinen said. “But you are mine.”

Míriel felt like laughing, with a surge of wild delight and defiance. Whatever became of her, she was free of Pharazôn and of Sauron; she would never have to see them again. If this was her fate, she had chosen it freely. “Yours,” she said. Uinen wrapped around her again, and then they were sinking, down into the ocean’s abyss, into the wonder and terror of the depths.


End file.
